Every year, Tod Caviness turns a handful of talented, sensitive poets into trained monkeys at the Fringe Poetry Vending Machine. Theatre patrons and random drunks at the Orlando Fringe give them a title and three words. This is what they give back.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Where These Tracks Go

There are vaultsfilled and pressing like loversagainst floorboard din.Within are stories and letters,plans and apologies,blue-black ink like veinsthat drip solemnly,remnants of memory with tangible life.

The despair seems sweetin the recesses.You may have been bought and soldand had your eyes blackened,but the receipt is still validand the drive-train will hold outbefore the warranty passes away.We are all radiant figuresand living martyrs,act like gods in front of a firing line.

There are boxesbursting at the seams and glowing like a feveragainst what’s left of the carpetworn and giving in to hospitality.Within are love poems and the pens that birthed them,check stubs and proofs of purchase.They are road signs,bad directions from a strangerand we follow with an honest grinand pocket change burning holes.

by Butch

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I think they may have just given Butch the title and told him to go nuts with this one. And in true Butch fashion, he went nuts very quietly. Not his best (that's coming up), but I kinda like this one.